


For the Vision Fair

by reine_des_corbeaux



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Cockblocked by Vows of Chastity, Doomed Relationship, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26186728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reine_des_corbeaux/pseuds/reine_des_corbeaux
Summary: Mordred wants Galahad. Galahad wants the Grail. It's a bit of an awkward arrangement.
Relationships: Galahad/Mordred (Arthurian)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 22
Collections: Short August Medieval Exchange 2020





	For the Vision Fair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatgothlibrarian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatgothlibrarian/gifts).



Mordred does not, strictly, have feelings for Galahad. He has feelings _about_ Galahad, most of which involve their essential connection as children of fathers who have more important things to worry about than the well-being of their bastard sons. This, at least, is what he tells himself, because that is probably what Galahad thinks is most important. Mordred, though, for all he says this in his mind and in the moments when he is distracted by Galahad’s fragile strength, knows that his feelings about Galahad likely run deeper than simple admiration and camaraderie. 

There are other reasons Mordred likes to spend time with Galahad, and when they talk, it is hardly ever to discuss the accidents of their births, or the ways their fathers have pushed them aside. Galahad is neither Mordred’s brother nor someone who might misunderstand his reasons to mistrust the king. This alone makes him worthy of love in Mordred’s opinion. Galahad is, ultimately, a good person, pleasant to talk to, always willing to listen in a detached sort of way. Mordred knows this, but sometimes, he wishes it were not so. Sometimes he wishes Galahad would touch him as he wishes to be touched, that he could feel his sword-calloused hands against his skin. 

Mordred, where Galahad is pure and driven, has only dark ambitions that he chastises himself for as he lies awake in his bed at night. Most of them revolve around kings and crowns and swords in hand, the singing slice of steel in the air of battle, but others have a different cast. On autumn nights, he dreams of brown hair and grey eyes, and the firm set of Galahad’s jaw, determined and ready to persevere. He’ll get his Grail, and Mordred can’t stand to think of that, because the Grail means Galahad will have no more use for Mordred. They’ll again never spar, sweating and exhausted, for a moment simply ordinary. The Grail will be all, and isn’t that what Galahad’s wanted the whole time? He’s leaving soon, and though Mordred’s told him again and again that he loves him, Galahad always just smiles. 

“Like a brother, Mordred?” he asks, clasping Mordred’s hand. “You know I do.” 

Mordred always smiles thinly. He has brothers enough in Orkney, and he doesn’t want to love Galahad as he loves them. He wants Galahad to hold him close on a winter’s night and make him feel as though he matters in a way he’s never felt before. With Galahad, Mordred wouldn’t feel quite so much like his mother’s pawn, his father’s doom. But Galahad can only call him brother, and when Mordred once, in a fit of madness, spoke of kisses, Galahad only looked at him sadly. 

“Mordred,” he said, “I have a vow.” 

But Mordred does not have a vow, so he sits in the darkness tonight, looking out at the stars that gleam with a promise of cold and frost come morning, and he takes himself in hand. Things, he thinks, could probably be worse than what they are. Galahad, after all, likely doesn’t touch himself on account of his cursed vow, and though Mordred may not have love, or honor, or true affection in his life, he does have his hand. So he sits on the corner of the bed, and strokes himself gently to hardness. 

As Mordred goes about the business of masturbation, as he often does, he lets his mind wander into the realm of fantasy, looking down at his simple bed and imagining Galahad in it. He’d be strong in bed, Mordred thinks. Stoic, really, lying there with his hair mussed and his eyes gleaming with a brightness usually reserved for saints. But the Galahad of Mordred’s visions is no saint, and he cannot pretend to be one as he holds Mordred’s shoulders and pulls him down upon his cock. Every dream is the same: Galahad lying on the bed, and Mordred lowering himself down upon him, fucking himself on Galahad’s cock until Galahad comes, silent and smiling, his eyes full of love. 

As always, in such fantasies, Mordred allows himself to imagine a reciprocation of desire as well. He may be serving Galahad with his body in this dream-vision, but the Galahad of his fantasies, being Galahad, still brings Mordred off with a gentle hand before blessing him with a kiss. It’s just a light one, he imagines as he jerks his cock, and that is enough to send him quite over the edge. 

Mordred comes with a muffled yelp, his hand flying up to his lips to cover the sound, his hair stuck with sweat to his forehead, and just as he spends himself across his left hand, the chamber door opens. It’s Galahad, pure and cold as snow, and he looks with worry at Mordred. 

“I thought I heard you,” he says gently. A rosary hangs from his hand, chapped and red from the nighttime cold. “Are you alright?” 

Mordred looks at him, eyes glazed with the haze of orgasm, and he stands on shaky legs. 

“I’ve missed you all this while you’ve been praying,” he says, and he slings his filthy hands ‘round Galahad’s neck. 

Galahad draws back, smiling. 

“Mordred…” 

Mordred kisses him before he can say whatever he wanted to say. His lips are soft and taste of wine gone slightly stale, and Mordred determines that he will treat this as a communion, a way to join with God and Galahad, as Galahad’s lips open. His tongue enters Mordred’s mouth delicately, and for a moment, Mordred thinks Galahad might give up his quest, and then he pulls away. Mordred makes a small sound, desperately needy, and Galahad smiles at him. This time it’s thin and sad. 

“I thank you, Mordred, for your brotherly affection.” 

_I had your tongue in my mouth!_ Mordred wants to yell, but he sees the fear in Galahad’s eyes warring with the want before he can. This is for the best. They can pretend, at least a little, and keep Galahad pure enough for the Grail. They have to, though it breaks Mordred’s heart to do so. He smiles at Galahad, who seems illuminated by moonlight, and nods. 

“Might I give you another kiss of peace?” Mordred asks, and Galahad nods. 

This time, their mouths remain closed, their lips firm. In the kiss, Mordred tastes tears. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy the fic! Sources here are largely Malory and Tennyson, with a little bit of random Victorianized Galahad thrown in for kicks, because I am nothing if not an inveterate Pre-Raphaelite fan. 
> 
> Title from William Morris' "Sir Galahad, a Christmas Mystery."


End file.
